


Divine Chaos

by ClarkeGriffinTitties



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Airports, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Self-Loathing, i dont even know what this trash is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClarkeGriffinTitties/pseuds/ClarkeGriffinTitties
Summary: prompt: "We used to know each other and are stuck in an airport on Christmas Eve"





	Divine Chaos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChasetheWindTouchtheSky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasetheWindTouchtheSky/gifts).



> this is major yikes. hope you enjoy <3

“What do you mean my flights been delayed until tomorrow!?” Bellamy stares incredulously at the lady behind the information counter, a distinct urgency masking his usually composed exterior. “Tomorrow is Christmas!” 

The employee, taken aback, stutters over her words, unsure of how to proceed with the frustrated passenger. “I-We understand-” She can’t hide the clear waver between the syllables. 

At her flustered speech, Bellamy holds up his palm, stopping her. “I’m sorry,” He glances down at the name tag attached to her uniform, “Valencia. I know this isn’t your fault and you’re trying your best to handle the situation as it unfolds.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, physically releasing the built-up tension with a deep exhale. “I hope you have a great holiday and aren’t stuck here too much longer.”

With a tight-lipped smile and curt nod, he turns to leave, accidentally bumping shoulders with someone while trying to move out of the way for the next in line.

“My apologies!” He brings a hand to their elbow, excusing himself. 

“Oh, no worries.” The blonde assures, lowering her head as she continues on her way. 

Bellamy stops in his tracks. He raises an eyebrow at the sound, instantly teleported back in time to memories full of that same voice: so delicate, so inviting. 

“Clarke?” he swivels; it couldn’t be. 

The face that meets his is nearly unrecognizable. Years past and stories untold, he could have so easily been mistaken, but when her eyes settle on his, he is sure; it’s her; it’s Clarke. No time nor distance could disguise that all-too familiar warmth staring back at him. 

Confusion flickers across her face at first, quickly replaced with knowing when the realization strikes. 

“Oh my gosh, Bellamy!” The blonde strides forward but hesitates for a moment, doubtful of how he’ll react, yet ultimately shaking her head and awkwardly embracing him in a half hug, her other hand still fastened to her suitcase. 

Bellamy welcomes the gesture, draping an arm over her shoulder in return. When she doesn’t pull away at first, he drops his briefcase to the ground, fully enveloping her within his grasp. He feels her other arm snake around his torso, holding him close, her nose nestled into the crook of his neck. He props his chin against the top of her head, a tranquility he hasn’t felt in God knows how long washing over him. Bellamy tries not to focus too much on the unmistakable scent of her shampoo that no amount of soaking, scrubbing, or scraping over the years could erase from his mind. 

Bellamy is the first to step away, but holds Clarke at arms length, taking another glance at her. 

“Look at you!” He twirls a stray strand of hair that has fallen loose from her bun around his finger. “I see you actually went through with it and chopped it all off. ” 

A carefree smile makes its way to his lips, as though they haven’t been apart for ages; As though his heart hasn’t ached over this same girl standing before him ever since they parted ways. 

“Yeah, well…” She looks away, an uncomfortable stillness weighing down on them.

Bellamy immediately picks up on her discomfort. 

“What’s the cane for?” He nods at the pole she’s leaning against.

“Oh, this thing,” she grinds her palm into the grip. “I injured my hip a few months ago. I’m still recovering and the doctors made me promise to actually use it. ‘It’s for your own good!’” she mocks. 

“They’re not wrong.” he jokes with two raised brows. “Well here, let me take that bag from you.” He leads them over to an abandoned gate, motioning for her to sit down. After a few beats, both avoiding eye contact, Bellamy clears his throat. “So where ya headed?”

“Oh, um, Boston.” at his silence, she continues. “I’m flying in to see my mom and dad for the holiday. Wells will be there too. We haven’t celebrated Christmas together in a while so we decided to get together this year, since it may be the last one-” she pauses, redirecting, “You know, with crazy work schedules and all. It’s so hard getting the days off.” She says the last part a little too fast. 

Bellamy rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Well I hate to break it to ya, but I’m on that plane too,” her eyes light up, “Bad news is, with the weather forecast, we are gonna be stuck here overnight. They aren’t letting any flights come or go until early morning soonest.” 

Panicked, Clarke straightens up. 

“What!? No! I need to make that flight!” She breaks out into a fit of coughs, covering her mouth with her sleeve and sitting down as quickly as she had stood up. 

Bellamy leans over, a hand resting on her knee. “Hey, hey, hey. You alright?” His eyes widen, a concern he tried to bury down deep revealing itself. 

She shakes a hand, dismissing him. As she regains her composure, she rasps, “Just allergies.”. 

“If you’re sure…” Bellamy settles back into his seat again, still wary. 

“I just, I needed to make it to Boston.” She covers her face with her palms, elbows digging into her knees.

“Tell me about it. Octavia is gonna kill me.” he sighs.

A scoff leaves Clarke’s lips. “Now that’s putting it lightly. Assuming she hasn’t changed a bit since last I saw her, she’ll rip your small intestine out of your mouth, and your large intestine out of your butt, using you as her skipping rope.”

Bellamy stares, dumbfounded for a moment. Clarke turns her head to face Bellamy, peeking out from between her fingers, before they both burst into laughter. 

“You got me there.” he says between breaths. 

“Looks like I’m going to have to be your personal bodyguard for the night. Knowing Octavia, she’ll hire a hitman to come and take care of you until she can get her hands on you personally.” 

“Looks like it.” he grins; the first genuine smile in months. 

“So we have approximately,” she lifts her sleeve to check her watch, “Twelve-ish hours to kill.” A deep groan escapes her lips.

For a second, Bellamy is taken back to late nights spent in old, greasy diners, Clarke grumbling when the food would take longer than ten minutes to arrive. 

_She always was an impatient one,_ he thinks to himself. 

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I’m here to keep you company,” he holds out his hand to her. “Come on, no way am I gonna sit here and watch you complain in that chair for twelve hours.” 

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, a hint of a smile visible. “What do you propose then?” 

“Whatever the hell we want.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes, but takes his hand anyways, allowing Bellamy to hoist her off her feet, giddy.

***

Relearning Clarke is like second nature; purely instinct, primitive, _real_. 

As they tumble through the gates, wrecking havoc, leaving no stone unturned, something changes, shifts. The world gets just a bit more whole: their vision clearing, palms unfurling, hearts reviving, leaving them with an alignment so beautiful they’re left wondering why they ever interfered with such divine perfection in the first place.

They spent hours playing hide and seek, with Bellamy getting stuck on the baggage claim belt at one point. Clarke watched in amused horror as his tall frame spun on the conveyor, lodging him halfway through the opening, his legs flailing as he tried to free himself. After two minutes of no success, Clarke had to fetch an employee to give Bellamy a hand as she videoed the whole thing, the camera shaky from her uncontrollable laughter. 

They roamed the floor of the airport, placing bets with spare change on which sleeping passengers were most likely to snore or drool, creating elaborate backstories for others, predicting how they planned to spend their holidays. 

They used scratch pieces of paper to play tic-tac-toe and hangman, just as they did when they were younger, yet still just as competitive in their older age. 

About five hours in, both spent from their adventures and lack of sleep, they finally winded down, seeking shelter in a desolate wing of the airport. 

Bellamy collapses down onto the carpeted floor, not caring how dirty it may be, as long as he can get off his feet. Clarke slides down the wall next to him, bending her knees and hugging her arms around them with her chin situated on top.

They’re both quiet for some time before Bellamy chances a glance at Clarke, both her eyes closed. A small smile tugs at his lips. He crawls over, plopping down next to her, their arms grazing. 

After all this time, and she’s really here. What were the chances? It had been _years_. When they broke up, no- When _he_ left, he never thought they’d see each other again. He spent every day thereafter beating himself up for his stupidity. You don’t just walk away from Clarke Griffin; the brilliant, breathtaking Clarke Griffin. But he did. What an idiot. He had finally found happiness with her. Not that fleeting, tethered, happiness, no. The unpredictable, life-altering, profound happiness that changes everything; The kind that leaves you breathless, your chest ignited with the embers of joy; The dizzying type, where the lines between reality and fantasy blur and all you’re left with is unconditional peace. He found love.

And just like that, he lost it. Within one second, one impulsive decision, one step, one call, it vanished. He ripped it away with his bare hands, spit in its face, and threw it out to sea, never to return again. Except, here it is now, sitting right beside him, perfectly gift wrapped and labeled: his Christmas miracle. What _were_ the chances?

“Can you think quieter?” her words ring out into the stiff air. 

He doesn’t respond at first, instead drifting, lost in space in an infinite galaxy of outcomes, yet this is his. 

“You ever wonder what would have happened if I didn’t leave?” The words leave his lips before the voice inside his head can tell him not to.

Silence.

It’s a sensitive subject, one they had both mutually agreed to never talk about after the split. His mind flashes to a pair of eyes, distorted with fresh betrayal, unexpected hurt. As determined as he was to shove the memory away, crush it under the weight of distractions, guilt was an ugly temptation that always won. 

He just about gives up on getting a response. Maybe she fell asleep. He dares not look, though, in fear of what he’ll find. 

“All the fucking time.” she whispers. 

Bellamy’s head immediately turns to hers, to face the inevitable, whether he’s ready or not. She’s looking at the ground, playing with a loose thread in the carpet. He studies her, still so in tune with her quirks. When she’s avoiding something, she fidgets, a thin crease line appearing on her forehead as her brows dip down, her eyes searching for an invisible prompter. Bellamy takes a risk, bringing a finger to her chin, lifting it up until their eyes lock onto one another’s, a perfect fit. 

When she doesn’t move away, he tentatively cradles her cheek with the palm of his hand, his skin pulsing from the contact. She falls into the touch with a shaky breath, closing her eyes due to the intimacy of it all. When they open again, there is something almost unreadable in them, but not quite. It’s something he hasn’t seen, nor felt, in far too long: hope. 

Clarke’s gaze dips down to his lips, her breath coming in shallow spurts. She reaches her own hand up, covering Bellamy’s. She grasps for his other free hand with hers and brings it to her chest, where her heart lies, underneath the layers of pain and unspoken apologies. 

She leans in ever so slightly, hovering just inches before him, the steady thrum of their hearts beating to their own accord.

In a synchronized dance of drums, their hearts persist, desperate to be together again. They scratch, claw, _ache_ to be one. In a moment of vulnerability where their walls fall down, their cages come unhinged, releasing a gust of freedom at last, and finally, absolutely, their lips meet.

With the gentlest of touches, yet an ever bruising need, they are whole once again; two birds, caught up in the wind, the air giving them a weightlessness beyond words. They’re home. 

As they separate, their skin is flushed, their cheeks speckled with tears. Their eyes find each other’s, foreheads touching. There is no question, no insecurity, just true knowing. 

“Kiss me, Bellamy.” her voice is small, but sure. 

“You got it, princess.”

*** 

 

Clarke lies against Bellamy’s chest, her head rising with every breath he takes. She’s sound asleep, curled into his arms. He watches her fondly as she sleeps, caressing her back. Her form is even smaller than he remembers, so delicate in his hold. 

He checks the time.

1:13 a.m.

“Merry Christmas, Clarke.” he sighs.

She stirs in her sleep, her head tilting up to look up at him. She gives him a sleepy smile with closed eyes. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Bell.” 

Clarke takes a deep breath, moving to get up, but her lungs contract, causing an outbreak of coughing. Bellamy maneuvers her so she’s resting her back against his chest, gently rubbing circles against her spine. She hunches over as it intensifies, unable to recoup. Bellamy quickly grabs a tissue from the pocket of his discarded jacket, handing it to Clarke. She coughs into it, wheezing. When she pulls her hand away, a deep crimson stains it. 

“Clarke-” he starts, wide eyed. 

“Bellamy, I’m fine!” she gasps between breaths.

“No Clarke, that is NOT allergies. We’re going to the hospital.”

Clarke begins to object, but Bellamy stops her. 

“Don’t.” 

He grabs his jacket from the floor, jingling the pocket to make sure his keys are still there. When he turns around, Clarke is already trying to stand up on her own, immediately stumbling backwards, but Bellamy grabs her arm in time before she falls. 

“Dammit, Griffin!” 

He ducks down so she can throw her arm over his shoulders for support, stabilizing her with a hand on her back. With the other, he dials 9-1-1. 

***

Bellamy paces the waiting room, picking at his lip and cursing when the skin tears and he begins to bleed. 

It isn’t normal to be coughing up blood, right? That’s something all the doctors say is a big no-no. Yet, Bellamy’s eyes did not deceive him. Clarke had most definitely hacked up a clot of blood. He was _right there_. 

He feels a harsh surge of fear spread throughout his gut. The not knowing is what has always gotten to him. If he knows the root of the problem, fine. He can plan a route of action and proceed. That’s something he can work with. But being completely blind? It scares the shit out of him. 

This same level of fright is exactly how he felt the afternoon he walked away from Clarke. He hadn’t been able to sleep that night; the self-doubt, the uncertainty as to whether Clarke felt the same way, it was eating him alive. He was suffocating and the surface was so close, but no matter how much he kicked and screamed, his insecurities anchored him to the ocean floor, refusing to grant him the sweet purchase of air. His immediate reaction was to drown; surrender to it.

Now, years with endless nights of toxic smothering later, he knows better; he has to. He cannot do that again. Not to himself, and not to Clarke. 

She had gone in at least an hour ago and still, nothing. He’s about to take matters into his own hands and go knocking on doors when a nurse peeks his head around the doorway. 

“Mr. Blake?” 

He rushes over, opening the door wider.

“Any updates?” 

The nurse mumbles yes, nodding for him to follow. 

“Ms. Griffin is in stable condition. She wants to see you,” he says, although Bellamy doesn’t miss the way the nurse refuses to make eye contact for longer than a few seconds. “Room 102.” 

Bellamy picks up the pace, jogging down the hall, counting the numbers as he goes. When he finally reaches the room, he all but throws the door open. 

Clarke has oxygen tubes looped around her ears, inserted into both nostrils. She looks away as soon as she sees who it is. 

Bellamy takes two long strides to her bedside, pulling up a chair with his leg and wrapping one of Clarke’s hands in his. 

“What’s going on?” 

She sighs deeply, this time without coughing thanks to the added oxygen supply. 

“What’s _really_ going on?” he corrects himself.

She remains silent for a while, pondering her next move. Bellamy awaits patiently, his attention entirely on her. 

“I’m sick, Bellamy.” 

Pause. 

When she doesn’t say anything else, he cocks his head to the side. 

“Okay…? So did the doctors put you on some kind of medication?” 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she shakes her head. “Not that kind of sickness.”

“What do you mean?” he prods with the slightest tremble. 

Part of him doesn’t want her to respond, afraid he already knows the answer. The other part of him screams for her to say something, anything to silence the deafening sirens. 

“I have Stage IV lung cancer, Bellamy.” her voice breaks on his name. 

His head shakes violently, refusing to believe the words he’s hearing. 

Clarke continues, nodding. “About three years ago, I had a persistent cough. I couldn’t get rid of it for the life of me, so I scheduled an appointment. The doctors took a chest x-ray and prescribed me some medicine for your standard bronchitis infection, sending me on my way. A month went by and the pills weren’t seeming to help at all. I woke up one morning with shortness of breath, my roommate driving me to the hospital. They admitted me, did some more tests, but still, nothing showed up on the scans. So they went in with a microscope, finding an advanced mass on my right lung.” she pauses, searching for the right words.

Bellamy’s already pulled away, his face in his hands, leg bouncing as she speaks. _This can’t be happening. There must have been a mistake. This CANNOT be happening._ His brain is in overdrive, accelerating to dangerous speeds. 

“They went in for a biopsy; it was already spreading to the other lung.” she laughs, hurt. “Twenty-five with a metastasizing tumor. We tried everything: chemo, immunotherapy, targeted therapies, radiation. Everything, Bellamy.” breaking, “But cancer is an even more stubborn bitch than I am. I’d go into partial remission for a few months, but in the back of my mind, I always knew it was there, waiting to ambush. Two years in, it spread to my adrenal glands. Another six months, to my bones.” Her eyes are downcast as she wipes away the cruel tears that leave a path of unresolvable destruction. “They say I have six months. Maybe less. I needed to make that flight because it was going to be our last Christmas,” she finally looks up at him as he lifts his head, “Their last Christmas with me. Mom and Dad are trying to stay strong, to pretend like nothing’s changed, but no amount of baking and presents can take away from the fact this is it; They’re going to have to bury their little girl, to say one last goodnight.” 

He stares at her blankly, the words not processing. The waves are holding him under once again, relentless. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I haven’t seen you in years; I have cancer.”

“Yes!” quieter now, “A call, a text. I could’ve been there. I could have been _here_ , Clarke.”

“You left _me_ , Bellamy. How was I supposed to know you still cared?

“I’ve always cared!” his tone is rougher than intended. “Fuck, sorry. None of that matters now. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. 

Bellamy leans forward, placing a chaste kiss to her forehead, a film of cold sweat coating her skin.

“Not again.”

He is trying to keep it together for her, but inside, he’s adrift, no rescue in sight. He stands alone as the world burns around him, the smoke too thick to see through. Clarke calls to him from just beyond the smog, yet she is out of reach. 

“And the cane?” He tries to cut through it, but the black exhaust cuts right back. 

“Helps me walk. I get weak sometimes.” 

He can see how much it pains her to admit it. She was never one to succumb to hardships. 

“That’s putting it lightly.” he mocks her earlier statement. 

It figures that even now, in the midst of a head-on collision, he still manages to be the everlasting light in her darkness. 

Clarke’s closes her eyes and a tender smile has taken over her features, briefly erasing the crease in her brow from the pain of it all. 

“Thank you.” she whispers. 

“What for?” He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, a hint of a laugh just barely audible in his voice.

“I-” her voice hardly reaches his ears, clearly weak from bearing the truth. She shakes her head in disbelief. “You just-”

Bellamy nods, motioning for her to take her time. 

She lifts her gaze to his, cheeks stained from her tears. She holds his stare for a moment, in awe that he’s really here, with her. A wave of peace washes over the room, leaving a serene silence. Clarke’s eyes go still, an open invitation, as they roll to the back of her head, her body convulsing. 

Bellamy falters, confused, before instantly lunging forward, grabbing ahold of her shoulders, shaking her. 

“Clarke?” more urgently, “Clarke!” he shouts into the hallway. “I need some help in here!” 

A team of doctors come rushing into the room, glancing at the monitor as it beeps erratically. One runs to the other side of the bed, lowering the headrest until Clarke lay flat on her back. Another wraps their arms around Bellamy, pulling him away from her seizing form. 

Bellamy clutches to her chest, refusing to let go as wretched sobs break through.

“What’s happening? Clarke, come back to me! I’m right here!” 

“Sir,” a nurse pries his arms free of Clarke. “Sir, we’re gonna need you to wait outside.”

A chorus of no’s escape Bellamy’s lips, with no rhythm or melody apparent. The room fades out of view as another pair of biceps fasten themselves around his torso, yanking him away from Clarke. He kicks and yells as they close the cage, his wings trapped in the doors, his freedom taken.

He loses focus as her back arches off the table, the doctors shouting “Clear!” into the sullen air. He falls to his knees, hitting the floor with a sharp thud. Arms lift him up, leaving his heart discarded on the cold tile. It thumps, expanding and retracting, desperate for relief. He submerges into a helpless void so vivid and so raw, so unjust. A monotonous buzz hollows him, scooping out his insides and abandoning them. 

His pleas hang stale, “Don’t do this to me! No! I just got her back!”

He watches as her body lay lifeless, vacant. One of the nurses checks the time, shaking their head. Bellamy doesn’t hear the words, rather _feels_ them. 

“No, no, no! I didn’t even get to tell her I love her!” his face falls to the ground, his fists pounding against it, bloodied and bruised. “I didn’t even tell her I love her,” he repeats. “I always have!”

Outside, snowflakes descend from the sky, mimicking the ashes of his soul: numb, feeble, gone.


End file.
